The Adventure of the Many Suspects
by Vorbin
Summary: This is an affectionate pastiche of our favorite detective, owing as much to David Suchet's masterful interpretation as to Agatha Christie's books. The story is unfinished; I am posting it to see if anyone thinks it worth completing. / I have completed the story and posted it as "The Adventure of the Surprising Ending."


**THE ADVENTURE OF THE MANY SUSPECTS **

Dedicated with respectful gratitude to A.C., who inspired it.

On a bright, sunny morning in central London—very odd weather that many found disconcerting —the greatest detective in the world sat behind his large desk sipping his customary cup of _tisane_ while perusing the _Times._

The clock on the wall said 10:13:27 AM, Friday, May 28, 1937 A.D. (The detective, impatient with slipshod clocks that provide only partial information, had had this one custom made in Zurich.) He closed the paper, thinking that today's lead article offered hope for the future: now that Mr. Chamberlain had become Prime Minister, surely England would at last begin to take a firm line against Herr Hitler and Signor Mussolini. It was high time.

The door to the outer office opened as there entered a tall, lean, handsome gentleman of perhaps fifty years, attired in a neat grey suit and a regimental tie. This man by his very presence radiated all that was fine in the British upper-middle class: honesty, plain dealing, bravery, trustworthiness, dependability.

"Cheerioh, old bean! I say, what a simply spiffing morning, what?" he called out as he tripped on his own feet and went sprawling on his face. Fortunately the inch-thick pile of the fine mauve carpet prevented any injury.

The great detective contemplated this through his pince-nez and said, "_Eh bien, mon pauvre_ Captain Waterloo, _vous êtes bien maladroit comme usuel, n'est-ce pas_? Please, arise and adjust your garments. Your cravat she has been much disorganized."

The former officer was spared further contumely by the rapid entry of a lady in early middle age, her dark blonde hair tied in a severe bun, her not unattractive figure mostly concealed by her modest blue dress. She proffered a handful of mail. "The first delivery, Mr. Greycelles," she said. "And there was a very urgent call from Viscount DeLuxe. He seemed to think he could speak to you at once, but I explained that you never accepted calls before 10:18½, after you finished your _tisane_. I told him you would return his call."

"Quite right, my dear Miss Kumquat," said her employer. "One must have order and method in one's life or it becomes like the existence of the wild beasts of the field. Did his Grace hint at whatever _petit_ problem troubles him?"

"He said that an explosion has destroyed the entire staff wing of Garrish Manor, his ancestral home, killing eleven retainers, including Mat Grubb, his Chief Gardener for forty years."

"Ah, these trifles," said Greycelles. "Call his Grace and ask if his senior under-gardener survived. If, as I suspect, he was not even there—_probablement_ he said he had to make a sudden visit to a sick great-aunt or other superannuated relative—then voilà! Gardeners know all about fertilizer, a prominent component of which, the nitrate of aluminum, is most useful in the making of _objets explosif _such as the bombs of time. As for motive, the man surely wished to supplant his senior, whose long tenure of office must have annoyed him."

As the efficient secretary hurried to make the call, Capt. Waterloo, now seated on a sofa, exclaimed, "By Jove, Greycelles, aren't you jumping to conclusions? I mean…"

The soigné detective raised a plump hand. "_Doucement, mon vieux_. Énée Greycelles, he leaps not to the conclusions rash. Did I not just read in the _Times_ that a hundred pounds of fertilizer was stolen last week from a warehouse in Little Rotting, a village not far from Garrish Manor? _Eh bien_, the under-gardener took it for the construction of the _bombe gigantesque_ used in the up-blowing of his so-hated rival the chief gardener. So now we have solved two cases. Remind Miss Kumquat to bill both Viscount DeLuxe and the Little Rotting constabulary. But now let us peruse the mail and discover if any real problems await us, _mon ami_."

The mail apparently contained nothing unusual. The bill from the cleaners for £150—the detective always had a suit cleaned after wearing it once—and the confirmation that four pallets of the finest _tisane_ were en route from Brussels, were routine, as were the advertisements from eight clothing stores and three manufacturers of moustache wax. But upon reaching the last item Greycelles exclaimed, "_Tiens! Voyez_, Waterloo, a coronet on this so-expensive envelope." Quickly he ran his Damascus-steel letter opener under the edge and withdrew a magnificent sheet of paper. "_Mon cher ami_, we are bidden to see the Duke of Worcestershire at Daggerthrust House, his summer residence in Kent. His Grace recalls fondly how I found his missing cuff link two years ago and now has another matter about which he wishes to consult us."

"A bit of all right, that," said the captain. "I can run us down in my new Bugatti 57T. I've installed patent feeder gaskets on the supercharger and chromed the reverse valve injectors so the gidgit pump maximizes the superflow. Goes like smoke, old chap."

The detective peered over his pince-nez. "I have no idea what you just said, but from your animation I infer that you can provide adequate transport to St. Anspeth-on-Sea-by-Marsh, the village where Daggerthrust House has its location. Excellent. We leave in three days. I shall have just time enough to groom my moustache."

Before Greycelles and Waterloo left for lunch, Miss Kumquat reported that Viscount DeLuxe's senior sub-gardener had been arrested and had confessed to both the bombing and the theft of the fertilizer. "His Lordship sends his undying thanks for your miraculous insight," she said. "And the Little Rotting police are eternally grateful, especially since they had grown very tired of interrogating every tramp they could find."

"_Mais naturellment_," replied her chief. "But fail not to send the bills promptly."

(2)

"I say! What a pile!" exclaimed Capt. Waterloo as his sleek Bugatti pulled up in the outer courtyard of Daggerthrust House.

Énée Greycelles had spent most of the trip with his hat pulled over his eyes while he fingered his rosary: at times the car had been moving at fifty miles per hour. Now he relaxed and adjusted his suit. "_Enfin_, we arrive," he said. "I congratulate you on your good luck, Waterloo, in not killing us both. _Oui_, this _maison magnifique_ is impressive, _n'est'ce pas_? She was built in the fifteenth century and often attacked and defended. But inside these ancient walls are found the most modern conveniences, including the central heating of the bedrooms, thank heaven. Even in June one may experience the chills nocturnal."

As liveried lackeys hastened under the portcullis to unload Capt. Waterloo's portmanteau and Énée Greycelles's three trunks, the captain asked his friend about the Duke of Worcestershire.

"Marmaduke Phyffe-Drumme is an aristocrat most eminent," replied Greycelles. "His title, of course, derives from the piquant condiment his ancestors concocted and whose secret recipe they sold to Messrs. Lee and Perrin in return for a share of the subsequent enormous profits. The current Duke fought most valiantly in the late war, or rather would have, had he not fallen off the gangway upon his arrival in France and so disrupted his leg that he was invalided from the army and sent home to serve in the garrison of Edinburgh for four years. Even today he walks with the limp. He inherited the title when his father was killed at the Somme. His Grace has experienced other sorrows. His twin brother—his junior by three minutes—died several years ago, of an _attaque cardiaque_, and his wife the Duchess also suffered a disappointment."

"What was that?"

"She died. A fall off her horse. The marriage had not been blessed with children."

"Then who is his heir?"

"The Duke had a younger brother, Dudley, who died at Passchendaele. This man's son, Bertie, is the heir. He is, alas, the—how do you say?—the _mouton noir_ of the family, the sheep who is black. Although enrolled at the famous Cambridge, he studies not hard and runs about with flappers and other _décadents_. The Duke hopes the young man is but knitting his wild oats…"

"Sowing, you mean."

"_Merci_."

Crustley, the head butler, came out to escort the two men to his Grace, who received them in his study. "Greycelles, so good to see you," he exclaimed, rising and advancing with a noticeable stiffness of his right leg to shake hands.

"Your Grace, may I present _mon ami_ and associate Captain Waterloo."

"Welcome to Daggerthrust House, captain. What was your regiment?"

"The 77th, sir."

"Ah yes, the Sussex, Sherwood, and Shropshire Sharpshooters. Fine outfit. Please sit, gentlemen."

The Duke rang a bell. A maid entered with a tray of drinks, curtsied, and withdrew.

The Duke looked gravely at his guests. "Greycelles, I'm up a tree. I hope you can help."

"If your Grace will describe his problem, I am hopeful to help him descend from the _arbre_."

"My watch has disappeared. Vanished. I removed it before taking a bath two days ago. When I returned to my dressing room the bally thing was gone. Nothing else missing: note-case, pen, monocle, everything else still on the dresser. But not my watch."

"Had this timepiece any extraordinary value?" asked the detective.

"Well, it is an heirloom. Belonged to my great-grandfather, and always passed to the eldest son. Very nice gold case with the family crest engraved inside. But not very valuable as such, I should think."

"And easily identified," said Greycelles. "Waterloo, tell Miss Kumquat to telephone the pawnshops to assure that it has not been so disposed of. But so conspicuous an object would not be likely to end up there. Your servants, your Grace—could one of them have abstracted it?"

"Never. Only Crustley and the evening maid, Tilly, were in the main house. He is absolutely trustworthy—my batman in the war, you know, a former Lance-Bombardier—while she was listening to the radio in the scullery. Crustley saw her. Anyway, if it were a domestic, surely my money would also have been taken? Damn sight more negotiable than the watch."

"_Bien sûr_, your Grace. You have reason. May I ask what people of quality were in the house?"

"There were six—still are, in fact. My friend Sir Augustus Wall-Nutt, 7th Baronet Nutt of Nutt House, his wife Lady Honoria, and their daughter Arabella; my nephew Bertie; my secretary Belle Sans-Merci; and an American furniture expert, Clem Visigoth, who represents a firm in New York interested in buying some of my antiques. You'll meet them all at supper."

"_Trés bien._ I shall submit them all to psychological study."

"But surely you don't suspect any of them of stealing my watch?" asked the Duke, tugging nervously at his moustache.

The great detective shrugged. "The objects physical, they do not vanish into the thin air, your Grace. If the watch is gone, someone took it. If, as you say, the servants could not have done so, it may have been a guest. Do the others know of your loss?"

"Oh yes, I've mentioned it more than once."

"Then I will see you at dinner, your Grace. That is only a few hours away, so I must now start on my _toilette_ so as to be presentable."

(3)

Greycelles met briefly with his associate before going down to the Great Hall. "Waterloo, you must ascertain whether there any animals in the house. It is possible that some furry creature, attracted by the gleam of the ducal timepiece, abducted it. Also determine if in this region are many crows or other large birds and if there are windows in the room. We must be certain that a flying beast did not make off with the watch, in the way of _la gazza ladra_ in the Rossini opera of the same name, where a magpie is the real thief of the missing items."

"Rightyoh," replied the captain as he accidentally knocked a shaving cup onto the floor. "I'll stir my stumps and get cracking."


End file.
